


Waiting For You

by loveandwarandmagick



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Magic, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, No Smut, Slow Burn, Watford (Simon Snow), i think, nearly 15k of a mess of emotions, there's a lot of pining folks, there's plenty of comedic relief though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:54:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24750397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveandwarandmagick/pseuds/loveandwarandmagick
Summary: "Your soulmate doesn’t have to return your feelings. It is inevitable that you will meet them, but it is not guaranteed that something will come of it."The soulmate AU in which lying to your soulmate injures them. Simon has no idea, and Baz has known since they were kids, and has loved Simon for even longer than he knew.Taking care to stay on his side, knowing exactly where he belongs, he still manages to fall into Simon's bed anyway.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 20
Kudos: 247





	Waiting For You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blujoonie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blujoonie/gifts).



> hello lovelies !
> 
> this is for my friend meri (bluejoonie on here & merisalright on tumblr !)
> 
> she posted an idea for a fic awhile ago based on "the cut that always bleeds," by conan gray and i texted her n' asked if she had plans to write it. spoiler alert: she didn't, so i did
> 
> disclaimer: this is very loosely tagged fwb lol, there is no actual smut (i,,, don't think i could manage writing that) but there is making out ? that part is hardly relevant to the plot though, it's more for the angst factor, and bc this fic was based off song context, which sounded very fwb 
> 
> anyways i've rambled a lot, pls enjoy !

**_Baz_ **

The story begins as it always does - with a hero, a villain, and an ending. Baz never counted on being the villain, though. He’d been raised to believe in his power and influence, in making the family name stand for him. His family wore pride and scorn well, and it gave them power, status. 

And then, of course, there was the part where he became a vampire. Potential hero status: nullified instantly by the time he was five years old. Enter Simon Snow, more powerful and influential than the rest of the world, looking the part from the bright glint in his eyes to the sword he swings around recklessly.

Baz is sure he’d end up the villain anyway. It’s his place, after all, to be on the opposite side of Snow. They look the parts of day and night, and are opposite in nearly every aspect.

That’s the place where he belongs, where everyone sees him - but he’s got other places, hidden ones that belong only to him. 

In the catacombs, drinking enough blood for the bruises to show up when Snow says something idiotic. In the bathroom, prodding at the new ones on his ribs, under his kneecap, on the edge of his jaw.

In Snow’s bed, letting Snow paint over the faded bruises with his mouth, making new ones with his sharp teeth, his sharp words.

The story starts as always, except no one anticipated this type of weakness from the villain. Baz has never read a story quite so tragic; one of a shared bed and shared insults and so many bruises that every touch hurts even when it feels so good. The story doesn’t show the hero and the villain falling into bed with each other without falling in love. 

Falling, because, even without knowing it, they were bound to. 

Baz found out sometime in their third year, when he insulted Snow - always cruelly, never truthfully. He’d known that he was in love long before he knew they were destined to meet. Simon had been bruised from the moment they met, relics of another foster home that had Baz convinced he’d already found his soulmate.

His affections had gotten away from him, curiosity burning on a running train. It was less of a thing of hope and more of the lack of it, when he whispered a lie to a sleeping Simon.

It was waiting hopelessly, for another reason to prove his misery, and then he saw a bruise bloom over his exposed calf. He couldn’t have been sure unless it happened in broad daylight, when they were both conscious and spoiling for an argument - Simon, because he’s always angry, Baz because he’s irritated at his own weakness.

It could have been a dream, but then the next morning, Simon had shouted until Baz got fed up. He lied through another insult he didn’t believe, and there it was. A bright purple spot, just under Simon’s eye. They were thirteen, and Baz knew then what that meant, even if he had to deny it for the sake of his own sanity.

Simon was so angry that he hadn’t felt it as he stormed out of the room, and he didn’t notice it until halfway through lunch. The truth was well hidden, by time and the horde of people itching to talk to him. Baz was equal parts relieved and disappointed. 

And now they find themselves here, in their seventh year. Four years of Baz knowing that they’re soulmates, of trying to avoid lying while he slings his best insults at Snow, to keep from hurting him too badly. In a way, it’s his own fault. It took the viciousness out of his words, made him soft enough for Snow to catch him off guard. 

_It’s a cruel joke_ , he thinks, as Simon’s hands wander across the expanse of his torso, as his lips move from jaw to neck, pausing to leave a mark. 

“Stop moving, it’s annoying,” he complains, and Baz feels the corresponding bruise immediately, spreading across his back. _Liar_. He grabs Simon’s hair and kisses him again to keep himself quiet instead. Any insult he throws back now will be a lie, will form a bruise, and the last thing he needs is Simon figuring it out. 

It’s a secret he’ll keep for as long as he can, to keep him like this. 

Even if he only has him while Wellbelove is tired of him.

Simon gets bored, or maybe he’s just exhausted, because he falls asleep sometime after Baz rolls them over, pressing Simon into the bed with kisses that get softer while his mind wanders. Baz has always found it fascinating that Simon, with his never ending energy for classes and training, falls asleep so easy around him. There was a time when he wouldn’t have trusted Baz to sleep across the room from him.

Like this though, when Simon gets too sleepy to do anything but hang on, Baz’s mind can place this in a different context. Like this, he pretends that Simon isn’t currently broken up with his perfect girlfriend, pretending like he figured out that they were soulmates in third year when Baz did. He never tries to change anything - he just takes what he can get. 

Baz sighs and moves away from Simon, stepping into the bathroom and out of his rumpled clothing. He tries to shake the thoughts from his mind, but can’t quite manage to forget the sound of Simon’s shaky laugh, of his wide palms rubbing circles across Baz’s shoulder blades.

His thoughts always swirl, like water down a drain, to the beginning of _this_. Viewing his bad decisions objectively, criticizing himself from a distance, makes it easier to swallow his self-loathing.

It’s not healthy. He should get a therapist, probably, instead of indulging temporary pleasures. Or pick up a new hobby instead of letting Simon Snow stick his stupid tongue in Baz’s mouth each time his girlfriend decides she doesn’t like him anymore. 

By the time he gets out of the bathroom, Snow’s gone from his bed. The sheets are still messy. Baz spells them clean before crawling into bed, letting the gentle ache of the bruises along the length of his body soothe him to sleep. 

**_Simon_ **

Agatha had a bad habit of wanting to make up right after Simon had spent an hour snogging his roommate. 

Well, not always an hour. Sometimes it was a few minutes of frustration. Sometimes hours, if they’re both struggling to find sleep. But it’s always after a fight, after she was cruel and Simon lied to her face, feeling bitter disappointment creeping under his skin when she remained unbruised, face impassive. 

They’d been taught that the older you get, the worse the injuries become. It starts with insignificant nicks on the skin and tiny bruises, then progresses. Simon started his years at Watford covered in bruises, littering his entire body, before he even _met_ Aggie. So, his soulmate is out there, has lied to him before. 

And it’s not her. 

The usual bitterness of the truth is lessened right now, by his exhaustion. He already knows how this is going to go, so there’s no surprise to make his heart beat too fast.

Sometimes Baz breathes in while they kiss, like he’s inhaling all of Simon’s anger and taking it for himself. If Simon thinks of it like that, his frustrations tend to ebb away, like that’s really what’s happening. It makes him so tired, by the time he meets Aggie again, that’s all he feels when he looks at her. 

Tired, _and_ wanting, he supposes. Even if she’s not his soulmate - not anyone’s, according to her - she’s still the loveliest girl Simon’s ever seen. And she’s always there, even if she’d much rather be elsewhere. It’s nothing Simon can blame her for. 

So, he lets himself want her. She really _is_ lovely, even with that resigned look on her face like she can’t bear to do this again. Once, Simon asked her if she’d rather just end things, and she sighed like he was being stupid, then shook her head minutely. He doesn’t really get it. 

“Hey,” he says, because she’s silent and looking at the stars, even though the look on her face says she heard him coming. 

“Hi, Simon,” she responds, voice distant. Simon looks at the stars too and wonders if that’s how she feels - years and years away from everything. 

“How are you?” 

“Good. And you?” 

This is how it starts. Exchanging pleasantries and being sick of sitting away from each other. Even if they’re not soulmates; he’s sure that there’s love between them. It’s enough for him to be like this. She’s something sweet to numb the pain of all his failings. A reward of some kind - not the stitches to close the wound, but the morphine. 

When he heads back to his room, his thoughts veer off at the sight that greets him. 

It’s completely dark - Baz hates sleeping with the curtain open, so Simon feels his way into the room, touching his straightened sheets and glancing over at Baz. He’s the only one who'd bother making the bed, but he’s fast asleep now, breathing softly. Simon rolls his eyes at the gesture, feeling appreciative nonetheless. 

Even as he crawls into bed to sleep, he can’t tear his eyes from Baz.

Every time this _thing_ happens, sleep refuses to relieve him of his thoughts, for the very first time this began.

The first time, he’d been tired and restless, and his body was thrumming with new injuries. One on the bridge of his nose, another on his ankle. A long, thin cut in the hollow of his throat. Scrapes on both elbows, and an aching burn in his ribs. Penny had taken one look at him, face crumpled slightly with the annoying aches, and cast a _Get Well Soon!_

It’d only gotten rid of the burn in his ribs.

And then he’d seen Agatha across the dining hall, not even sitting with them, and he knew somehow. She’d broken up with him before, twice in fifth year, and once in sixth. This is how it always began, with her sitting away from the table. Penny had sighed and Simon had stared. 

Agatha had been watching Baz and he’d said something about it, low enough for Simon not to catch anything except the resounding laugh from Dev and Niall’s soft, chastising voice.

He’d gone to the room, already knowing what would come if he stayed longer. It was something he could deal with tomorrow, but not now. By the time he stepped out of the shower, Baz was already there, teeth bared in a sneer as he leaned against his own desk. 

“Lover’s spat?” Baz asked, voice dripping with satisfaction. He’d been even more scathing recently, eyeing all of Simon’s injuries with poorly concealed disdain. The thought of him being just as frustrated as Simon, and just as irritating as always, had been encouragement enough. 

It had been too easy then to decide to cross the room. To stand in his space and lean in, shutting him up fucking _finally_. He’d been angry, irrational and stupid, but Baz had kissed back, clutched onto him like a man drowning. 

They didn’t talk about it - what was there to say? Simon pulled away and Baz had snarled something like _shut up_ at him and walked out. 

And then the next day, Aggie broke up with him, for real. And Baz avoided him, until he couldn’t. Until he came back and pressed their lips together again and kissed Simon breathless. They didn’t talk about it, even as it became a pattern, and a week later, Agatha got tired of being distant and apologized. 

Baz knew somehow, like everyone did, and stayed away. 

Simon finally starts to drift off with the end of the start in mind. It’s the only time he allows himself to think, mostly because there’s not much to think about in the first place. 

He used to feel guilty at the beginning of it, but Baz’s apathy towards the whole thing made guilt seem pointless. 

Which brings him back to the thing he tries not to think about. Surely, he couldn’t be gay. He’s attracted to Agatha, and dated her for years. _But_ , he wouldn’t be kissing Baz if he wasn’t attracted to him. This is where his thoughts crash, mind running and retracing the start of _this_ , and then he reaches an impasse. He’s sure Penny would have a helpful pamphlet for him, but he’d rather ignore it.

His thoughts hang from a cliff of unknowns, and he falls asleep restlessly. 

**_Baz_ **

Early morning, right before the sun breaks over the treeline of the forest, is Baz’s favorite time. Their bedroom is at the top of the tower, so the sun leaves a spill of golden light through the now open window.

It’s his favorite time because Simon’s just exhausted himself enough to fall asleep after thinking all night. He knows what it means when Simon leaves and comes back after the sun has set. He’d woken up to the door easing shut, and Simon’s soft sigh when he saw his bed made. He’d opened his eyes just to be sure of the lip gloss stain on his cheek, iridescent with a hint of pink.

He knows that on those nights Simon can’t sleep. Which means that Baz gets to wake up and be still, unmoving and unguarded in his own bed. He can just watch as Simon breathes in and out, exhaling through his mouth heavily, looking just as peaceful as when he falls asleep in the middle of a kiss. 

And then, _finally_ , the sun breaks over the edge of the window. Baz sees it as it first spills over on the door, then watches as it makes its slow descent along their beds. He lets his eyes close, lets his thoughts settle, before he opens them, squinting against the glare of the light.

There’s nothing prettier in this world than Simon doused in sunlight. It turns him into an angel, into something ethereal. His hair is the palest shade of brown, more dirty blond than anything. His freckles are a spill of cinnamon across his nose, moles the same shade of spice. 

In this light, Baz can’t find it in him to want. The Simon that lets him want, that lets Baz take him apart with his mouth, is shrouded in darkness. Skin silver from the moonlight, freckles and hair turning a shade of blue. He looks more like a dream then, like something Baz pulled straight from his fantasies. 

In this light; he’s golden. Untouchable, too unreal and fragile. Less dream, more human. 

He only has a few minutes before the sunlight pries Simon’s eyes open, so he takes the time to pretend there’s less distance between them, to stare all he wants without Simon’s questioning eyes to dismantle him. He looks away for a second to watch as a cloud floats over the sun, obscuring the light, and when he looks back, Simon’s eyes are open. 

He blinks blearily at Baz, squinting the slightest bit before he yawns and shuts them again.

**_Simon_ **

Baz’s face looks shattered open. And he’s so _pretty_ when he’s ruffled from sleep. 

It’s a thought that’s crossed his mind before, one that used to make his thoughts run over rationality and cause panic but now, it’s a tether. It makes it easier that they don’t talk about it, that it only happens a couple of times.  
  
Not for the first time, Simon wonders if Baz knows who his soulmate is, if it’s a boy or a girl. If he knows them yet. 

He’d probably kill him if he asked. 

**_Baz_ **

That will not do. Not at all. 

Baz stands up to take a shower, brushing his hair out of his eyes almost absently. He feels like he’s been compromised, in a way. Keyed up and confused, he turns the water to the hottest it’ll go and lets it burn away the ghost of Simon’s touch and gaze. 

He’ll have to keep his distance now, try not to get burned by the sight of the happy couple, reunited. A hiss slips through his lips when he tilts his face into the water. There’s a cut on his jaw when he checks in the mirror, and he wonders where it came from. 

If Simon notices the concealer splotching his face, he chooses to stay silent about it. 

-

It’s only a matter of time after that. Baz sees the restlessness in Wellbelove’s face when she sits with Snow, something distant burning behind her eyes that makes him think she wants _more_ than what she has. It’s only recognizable because it’s in Simon’s face all the time. 

They’re both running to something, away from something. Certainly not in the same direction, from the look of it. Bunce keeps looking pointedly between them, extending her arm and gesturing at the distance between them frustratedly. 

Baz can guess what her point is, and feels rather inclined to agree. 

“Think Wellbelove is finally done with him?” Dev asks hopefully, head swivelling around like an owl to gawk at them. 

_Is that how I look?_ Baz thinks disgustedly, but gets distracted by Niall’s response.

“Maybe for once. But you’d never get a chance. She doesn’t even have a soulmate,” he says thoughtfully, absently fiddling with the stem of his apple. 

“How do _you_ know?” Dev asks, voice taking on a tinge of annoyance. Baz shoots him a look for it. He’s got a soft spot for Niall, since he’d been standing behind Baz when Simon called him an ugly bloodsucker, and bandaged his neck up later when he bled through his shirt at the words.

_“Does he know?”_

He’d asked quietly while he was peeling off the adhesive, curious pale eyes flicking up to Baz carefully. If Baz wasn’t so bent on his hopeless self-destruction, maybe Niall would have been a safe harbor for his feelings. Even if they weren’t soulmates, it’d be safer than loving a bomb of a boy, letting him hold his heart in between his crossed wires. An absent guarantee. 

“ _No,_ ” he’d replied after silent deliberation, and Niall nodded quickly.

“ _And. Do you…?_ ”

Another silence, heavier this time. It had been answer enough. 

Since then, he’d never said another word of it, not even in reference. Baz is fiercely protective of him, as a result.

Dev’s voice brings him back to the present. “Well she told me she wasn’t interested, and I got a black eye,” Dev remarks, sighing with his chin in his hands. 

“Well, her friend _did_ hit you pretty hard, Dev,” Niall responds casually, and Baz snorts. 

“Shut up,” he hisses back, earning another warning glare. 

“Look they’re _leaving_ ,” Niall says, playing up his fake despair and holding his hands to his heart and scrunching up his face, “Won’t she look at me, just for once?” 

Dev flips him off and gets up, snarling something impolite while Niall rolls his eyes. 

“He’ll stop trying eventually,” Niall says, but his eyes are still sparkling with mirth. Baz laughs again, letting an uncharacteristic smile spread across his face. 

When he looks up to catch a last glimpse of the group walking out, Simon is staring straight at him, expression unrecognizable. 

Niall raises an eyebrow, eyes darting between Simon and Baz. “What’s that mate?” 

Baz answers truthfully. “I have no idea.” 

-

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to keep his distance for long. 

When he gets back up to the tower, Simon’s sitting on his bed, staring down at his hands boredly. Baz is about to snap at him for not being on his own bed, but his voice sticks in his throat when Simon glances up at him.

“Snow,” he manages to choke out, as Simon’s mouth curves up into a tiny smile. _Oh_. Baz knows that look. 

The first time this had happened, Simon was all solemn concentration, focused entirely on the task at hand. Slowly, as he’d started to get more comfortable, he let go. That meant getting smiles in reply sometimes, or an awkward laugh when either of them did something stupid. 

It’d be a lie if he said he didn’t like the change, but it’d also be a lie if he said it didn’t hurt more to have Simon when he’s closer to his usual self. 

“Baz,” he says, clumsily, eager. He’s already crossing the room, and Baz eyes a bruise starting in the junction between his neck and shoulder. That one was from his experiment, a whispered “ _I don’t like you_ ” while Simon was sleeping. He’s tugging his collar away from his neck, and Baz knows exactly what _that_ means too. 

_Predictable_.

“What, Snow?” 

He grins again, spilling into Baz’s space like he belongs there. In all the places that Simon belongs, the best is here in the space between Baz’s hands. The worst is the cavity in his chest. 

“Didn’t I see you with Wellbelove earlier? Has she already ended things?”

Finally, the grin falls from his face, confusion crossing his features. “I did,” he says slowly, like he’s not upending Baz’s entire world with the statement.

“You what?” 

**_Simon_ **

Baz Pitch is oddly endearing when he’s being stupid. Simon rarely ever gets the chance to see it, as he’s usually always so composed, but the sight greets him now, and he can’t help another smile. This seems to confuse him more. 

“I broke up with her,” he repeats, and Baz looks at him the way he does sometimes, like he can’t quite figure him out. Simon tugs at his own shirt again and watches Baz watch him.

“Why?” He finally asks, and Simon smarts at the honesty in his confusion.

“Does it matter?” He returns, tone clipped and almost agitated. Baz seems to catch it, but instead of clamping on it like he usually does, his mouth becomes a thin line, something warring behind his eyes. 

“No,” he says slowly, “I suppose it doesn’t.”

If he’d cared about the answer, Simon wouldn’t have been able to give it anyway. It’d started with Penny pointing out their distance. 

When they’d left the dining hall, he’d stopped her in the corridor outside of the dining hall, and asked if she wanted to break up. She’d stared at him for a long moment before nodding slowly, brows furrowed, but relief clear in her eyes. 

And now, Simon’s here trying to make good on their deal. It's a habit at this point, to fall together after he and Aggie fall apart. Though, it’s not falling apart this time, not like it used to be. There’s no anger or sadness to burn away this time, and the thought leaves him feeling startlingly vulnerable. For the first time, he’s seeking this out because he _wants_ to, just to touch him.

For a second, Simon’s composure slips. Baz’s tentative hand comes up to grab his chin, and his other one slides across his hip. His face is maddening in the best way, plain-faced want that still takes Simon’s breath away. 

He wonders if that’s how he looks when they do this, then Baz leans in and he stops thinking. 

-

Baz is laying on his stomach, cheek pressed to the pillow. It started raining a while ago, and the thunder had distracted Simon long enough for Baz to pull back, collapsed and done with it. He’s never fallen asleep in the bed before after what they do. But here he is, looking softer and more relaxed than Simon’s ever seen him. 

His shirt is crooked at the back, sleeve sliding down his shoulder. There’s a magnificent bruise blooming along one side, dark purple. Simon trails his hand absently, carefully along his back, feeling the ridges of his spine and the bumps and cuts from other injuries. He never takes it off completely, something about scars, and Simon never pushes him. 

Simon sees the way Baz raises an eyebrow when he catches sight of the injuries littering him. He’s made a habit of kissing Baz’s guarded look off of his face when he gets lost tracing some of the worst ones.

“ _Christ, Snow_ ,” he says, fingers light, but words so heavy that they seem to fall from his mouth. The look on his face had been unreadable, just a smudge of concern behind it. 

Presently though, his face is a blank slate, wiped clean by sleep. His breaths rumble quietly in his chest, hair splayed out around his head in a halo. Simon wonders again who his soulmate could be, if he has feelings for them. 

He couldn’t exactly ask - they’re not on casual conversation terms. They argue just as much as they used to, even after their weird tangle began. But for a second, he wonders. It could be anyone, really, even him. He nearly snorts at the thought, thinking of all the spite and biting remarks Baz throws his way.

But what would it be like to _talk_? 

He entertains the idea as he lies back, one arm under his head and the other hand still tracing soft lines down Baz’s clothed back.

Mostly, it’s harsh kisses and heavy hands, stopping right before they get too far. Further is a conversation, which Simon can’t bring himself to initiate. The thought leaves him wondering, as he turns to watch the rain come down. 

Baz lets out a quiet noise next to him and Simon’s hand stills when he takes in the tense look on his face. Between the both of them, Baz’s nightmares tend to be quieter, but much worse. He has a sneaking suspicion that he knows what he dreams of, but he’ll never make the move to ask. Again, he ponders how he could even manage to bring that up, an actual conversation.

He’d surely seemed interested by Simon’s breaking up with Aggie. When he starts to cry, silent tears rolling down his cheeks, Simon slips out of the bed. Baz always gets angry if he wakes Simon with his nightmares, defensive of his vulnerability. Maybe they could talk about it, maybe it’d be easier if he knew Simon understands what it’s like. 

Maybe, maybe. He tries his best to distract himself until it’s over, pulling his thoughts away from the subject.

**_Baz_ **

When he startles awake, his first view is Simon, perched on the other bed. He’s poring over one of Baz’s novels, a classic that he knows he’s annotated a million times over in the margins between words. It occurs to him to be embarrassed, but he can’t quite manage it while he’s gasping for breath, still smelling smoke clearing from his nose.

“What are you doing?” He asks, at the same time as Simon asks, “You okay?”

Baz stares, astonished. Simon stares back, casual and the slightest bit concerned.

Simon kisses him sometimes and Baz kisses back and their hands explore, but it’s never more than that. Sometimes they’ll share a laugh if Baz does something particularly stupid, like smacking his head against the headboard or slipping backwards, but nothing else. It’s not _you okay?_ or that smudge of concern staining his face.

This is new. _This is dangerous_ , his brain hisses, _You’ll give yourself away_. 

But Baz is all too weak for the opportunity in his face. If he was stronger he never would have kissed back in the first place, never would have fallen in love with Snow long before he knew they were soulmates. He’d learned his every weak point, the insults that would stick and hurt, to do the opposite of love him. 

He’d learned the weaknesses, and then, inevitably, saw the rest of him. He knows Simon like he knows himself, and loves him twice as much to make up for his own lack of self-love.

He’s always believed that if falling means death, then diving is the fastest way out. If he’s falling already, he might as well dive into it. 

“Nightmare,” he says, stuntedly, and Simon nods. “Is that my book, Snow?” He asks, straightening out the slip of emotion in his voice.

Simon nods again, having the good grace to look embarrassed, and Baz rolls his eyes. “It’s fine. When did you become literate, again? Last year?”

Simon huffs out a messy spill of a laugh and Baz feels himself blush. It’s subtle at least ( not like he has the blood to do it properly).

Simon raises his eyebrows and absently touches his own cheek. Perhaps not as subtle as he thought. The burn in his face intensifies at the thought. 

“I’ve _been_ literate. Anyway, what did the book ever do to you?” He asks, gesturing vaguely at the expanse of insults Baz had written in the pages. He catches sight of the word _himbo_ and flushes again. 

“ _Catcher in The Rye_ is the worst book I’ve ever read,” he says, sitting up and brushing his hair out of his eyes. Simon looks mildly amused, flicking between pages. 

“I gathered from your insults. What’s a himbo?”

Baz has a horrifying moment in which he imagines trying to explain that to Simon, when his best example is Simon himself. 

“Ask Bunce,” he says, shaking off his shock and ignoring Simon’s curious expression. 

“This is… weird? Isn’t it?” Simon asks suddenly, breaking the sudden silence and shutting the book as he turns to face Baz. His fingers drum along the cover, soft and careful, and Baz finds himself watching. 

“Talking, you mean. Civilly.” 

“Is that a word?” He frowns, then, “Yeah. _Civilly_.”

He says it like it’s a fancy thing, a new secret Baz has gifted him, and Baz is hit with that sudden adoration he feels, watching Simon sit on his bed, still rumpled from earlier. 

“I don’t think it’s weird,” Baz whispers back, because the room is dark and it’s still storming outside, and he feels safe here, clear minded with the distance between them. He can keep a filter on, but he’ll give a little. 

“Why?” Simon asks. It’s an echo of their earlier conversation about Wellbelove, Baz realizes. The one that ripped his hopes wide open and gave him wings and a wide expanse of sky. And there was Simon, the sun melting the plaster on his wings, the ocean for Baz to collapse into and drown in. 

Sand in his hair, between his teeth. Pounds of it in his lungs, stealing his breath away from him like the sight of Simon does all the time. 

“I’ve had my tongue in your mouth, what’s weird about conversation?” He asks, instead of saying anything that matters, or questioning why this is happening, or telling Simon that he’s the sky and everything else that aids in Baz’s demise. 

Simon laughs so hard that he falls off the bed, and Baz laughs too, relishing in the tentative smile that he receives in response. 

Baz always suspected that getting closer to Simon might set him on fire.This is drowning, though. He finds that he doesn’t mind so much, since it feels this good. 

**_Simon_ **

The first, tentative conversation in the dark leads to a fragile truce. Aggie doesn’t talk to him, but she still smiles when he passes by. There’s the war - always there, oppressive and painful to think of - but it’s dormant until anything else happens.

It’s the same with Baz. They kiss, and they talk; staying on safe topics. Simon hasn’t had a new bruise in weeks, but he supposes it’s because he’s too busy talking to Baz now to catch his soulmate in passing.

Something’s changed. Simon doesn’t know how to call him a friend, because they’ve never been that, but there’s no other word for it. Crude alternatives pass through his head, but he cringes at the sound of them.

Now, they’ve spent all of their time after dinner talking, cooped up in separate beds because Baz claims it’s easier to think when Simon isn’t near him. 

He’s not quite sure how to take that. Baz says it in a snarl. 

It’s their sixth or sixteenth different conversation of the night, always starting with some ridiculous question (Simon) or an incredible proposal (Baz). This time it’s Simon’s question, sleep-deprived mind pulling concepts out at random and flinging them out for criticism or consideration. Both, most of the time, because it’s Baz he’s talking to. 

“Zombie invasion,” Simon mumbles, turning on his side to watch Baz’s face transform, as it usually does when he says stupid things. When they meet eyes, Baz scoffs, blank-faced in a strained way, like he’s concealing something. 

Simon finds that the urge to ask about it is just as strong as his worry to find out, so he stays silent.

Not because he’s scared of the probably harmless answer, but because then he’d have to think about why he wants to know at all. He’s already decided to not think of it, adding it to the list of things he should stop thinking about. Like how the way Baz says certain things makes his chest feel so tight, it could burst, or the way his eyes drop and wander Simon’s face when he thinks he’s not paying attention.

The slow roll of his voice cutting through Simon’s core, making him feel like he’s sitting in the sun. The way excitement roils in his stomach when he thinks of talking to him, falling asleep at the same time. Looking forward to the kisses that have now become rarer, or are interrupted by conversation more often than not.

His voice startles Simon from his trainwreck of thoughts. 

“Impossible. Rotting flesh would decompose in the sun and the invasion plan would shatter,” he says in a flippant tone. Simon notices that he lights up when he brings new information to debates, even more so when his point derails someone’s entire argument. It’s a good look on him, and another thing to add to his list of things not to think about. 

“Not my question,” he says through a yawn, laughing when Baz stares blankly, not understanding. When he repeats himself, and the question, Baz looks awfully thoughtful. 

“If I could save _anyone_ ,” he says, and Simon hears the hesitation in his tone, knowing immediately what’s brought it forward. 

“Anyone,” he reaffirms. Simon hopes talking about this is more of a knife tracing an old scar, but fears it may be reopening a fresh wound. 

There’s no more hesitation when he speaks this time. “My mother.” A pause, and a heavy sigh before he starts again. “ My sister and aunt. And… Niall.”

Simon frowns. “Isn’t Dev your cousin though?”

Baz only raises an eyebrow in reply. Simon’s too tired to laugh, but a smile takes over his face as his eyes slip closed. 

“And you, Snow?” 

The names fall from his mouth easily. By the time he’s gotten to Ebb, Baz scoffs at him. 

“Think realistically,” he says, and Simon frowns at this, eyes still closed. “Pick three,” he continues, voice fading out somewhere while Simon falls asleep. 

“Mm. Aggie, Ebb and Rhys, I suppose.” 

“And your sidekick?” He asks, though Simon barely hears him, sleep droning in his ears already. 

“She’s better in a fight than me,” he mumbles, mouth becoming clumsy as he loses consciousness. “Ebb wouldn’t hurt a fly, and Aggie’s no good in a fight. Plus, Rhys has a disadvantage in his chair. He can’t push himself if he’s fighting zombies.”

“So you’re playing hero?” His tone changes, breaking through Simon’s sleepy haze.

“Just… helping those who can’t help themselves. You’d be just fine. S’ why I didn’t put you on the list,” he whispers, letting his words quiet until they’re gone. 

Simon’s not sure whether he’s dreaming when Baz says, just as quietly, “I’d feed you to them,” but he smiles anyway, lip aching where it curves up. 

**_Baz_ **

Telling Simon the lie about zombies isn’t his first mistake, but it’s the first that means something. 

It means something because Baz wakes up in the morning to the smell of humid air, and thick blood. It makes his stomach sink, too many long nights of dreams where he takes his teeth to Simon’s throat and he wakes up in angry tears.

Shifting to sit up, he looks towards the bathroom, noticing that the door is already open. 

Simon meets his eyes in the mirror, and his entire chin is glistening under the fluorescent glare, light catching bright red, sticky tones. 

“What the fuck,” Baz mutters, more to himself than Simon. He squints at him through the mirror, then gestures wildly to get Baz’s attention. 

“Snow, what the fuck,” he says, louder this time as he approaches. Simon’s sticking his hands into the running water now, scrubbing gently along his mouth where the blood seems to be coming from. 

“My lip,” he says, although Baz has to strain to understand him through the mess of fingers and water. 

Baz slaps his hands away, pulling his wand from his pajama pants and spelling the mess away. A white line mars his lower lip, running along the length of it. He traces it absently with his tongue now that the blood is all gone, staring at Baz curiously. 

All he says is, “Thanks,” and then he leaves the room, leaving Baz is left with an empty sort of curiosity based on that flicker of awareness in Simon’s eyes. 

It sits and ferments all day, a rag soaking in gasoline. Simon’s the sun - all heat and danger, the lighter held to Baz’s skin, burning up the petrol. 

He would say that he should have known, but he already does, and it never stops him anyway. 

He hears Bunce ask about it after dinner while she walks him back to Mummers, just a few feet in front of him, and Simon glances back at Baz and smiles. 

She turns to eye him suspiciously, and Baz hurries to the room to sit at his desk before Simon gets there. 

He walks in a few minutes later, unfortunately, with Bunce by his side. Baz’s mind lights up with dangerous awareness, immediately on defense. 

“I’ll report you,” he says to her, as she moves to sit on his bed. It’ll smell like her magic later, like thick and heavy herbs, and he’ll be sneezing up until the second he falls asleep. He shoots her a glare and she watches calmly, something brewing behind her eyes. _Mischief_ , he thinks, and feels dread sink into his gut. 

“Will you?” Simon interjects, eyes bright and just as curious as earlier. Baz suspects the question is a part of something bigger. An experiment, maybe. Maybe Simon’s caught on, finally, and now he knows. Maybe Baz’s statement, the zombie one from last night, must have been too big a lie for Simon to miss.

It must’ve been Bunce who figured it out, if she’s here, eyes sparkling with interest. Baz would have suspected that it was Simon’s idea, if he was any less dense. 

He has to be careful, then. His eyes blink closed for a moment in a grasp for composure before he answers, the only way he can.

“No, I won’t. But you can’t sit there,” he gestures at her, and she nods approvingly, moving to lay on Simon’s bed. “Why are you here?”

“Studying,” she says, just as Simon blurts out, “A project.” It doesn’t register as a lie, or at least nothing that Baz can feel. The warning bells in his mind become softer.

“Studying for a project,” she amends, and Baz can feel her staring at Simon without even turning around to check. 

“About soulmates,” he adds. Baz holds back a snicker as he hears a thump, and Simon sucks in a sharp breath. 

Baz opens a book as they start discussing amongst themselves. She’s carrying on excellently, flawless in her information to the point where Baz might have actually believed them, if Simon wasn’t so painfully obvious in his change of speech. 

“Basil,” she says, after a long moment of silence. To her credit, she does look genuinely perplexed as she pores over her documents. Simon’s escaped to the window, staring at the clouds gathering along the dark sky. Baz glances at him as he sneezes, rubbing his nose hastily against his sleeve.

He remembers a second too late that she’s called him, and he turns away abruptly to be met with a small smile. If she had a light bulb above her head, Baz imagines that it’d be glowing bright right now.

“Are you familiar with the injury standards of soulmates? Or, who do you have for the lecture period?”

“Same as Snow,” he mutters, gesturing vaguely in Simon’s direction. He’s sitting now, one leg resting on the floor while he rests his chin along the other knee. The air’s getting warmer, humming with Simon’s magic as she speaks. 

“Right, so. Was it time or age that made the injury worse? I don’t exactly remember what the lecturer said.”

He narrows his eyes at her tone, and she widens hers in response, affecting innocence. “Both,” he says, cautiously. It’s not a lie, but he’s thrown off guard by the question. 

“Right well, this text says it’s the severity of the lie as well.”

He meets her eyes coolly, concealing the rush of panic that zips through his body at the truth. He knows that, only from experience though. It’s never occurred to him that there was actual research on it, much less that she’d have access to it. If she does, then so does Snow. 

“That’s fascinating,” he says, unaffected, cool. Simon betrays his interest in the conversation, body shifting so he leans more towards the sound of their voices. 

She hums an agreement, turning back to the papers. Baz wonders if that was meant to be a threat. For a second, he wonders if she found out about him and Simon, if that was some lame attempt at a shovel talk so he’d know to be careful not to hurt Simon. _As if_. 

Bunce doesn’t know it, but the biggest thing that they have in common is their care for Simon. Baz is counting on the fact that she never knows it.

It’s horrifying to think that she might know, but there’s a sick sense of satisfaction creeping in at the edges of the thought; the fact that _someone_ knows. He’s never been completely convinced that he wasn't dreaming when Simon first kissed him. To have others know is proof, even embarrassing as it is.

Unfortunately, she seems to have more up her sleeve to pull Baz from his reverie. 

Baz hears her mutter something under her breath, then Simon’s insistent voice, the tone that tapers out at the edges because his magic tends to saturate it and make coercion out of suggestion. 

Their suspicion makes him uneasy, and his voice shoots out to remedy his mild panic. “You accuse me of plotting all the time, and yet, you two are keeping me from studying. Shut up, Snow.”

**_Simon_ **

Penny says he’s nervous, that he’s ready to crack. His voice _is_ wavering, just a bit. It’s out of character enough to catch Simon’s attention.

He still flinches at the sound of it though. It sounds a bit violent, like they’re breaking something. Intruding. 

_Infiltrating_ , she says. _Do you want to know or not?_

He _does_ want to know, very much. The ache running across his lip last night hadn’t been a dream, and the second he’d mentioned it to Penny, she’d turned to the soulmate theory.

They’d been in the library, and she’d been extra attentive, emphasizing each syllable of what Simon recounted to her. A simple misunderstanding, really, nothing Simon is unfamiliar with, but mortifying nonetheless. It was his fault, anyway.

_“Oh god, why didn’t you tell me you knew? I’m not a bounder, Pen, we only do it when I’m not with Aggie.”_

_“Baz Pitch is your soulmate? Wait, do_ what _?”_

Simon’s never seen her look so horrified in her life, though he’s not sure if it’s the prospect of Baz being his soulmate or the fact that they’ve been snogging. Probably both. 

So now they’re here, plotting just like Baz always is, trying to get him to crack. 

It’s working wonders, according to her. Though, besides his voice, Simon thinks he looks the same as always. Composed as ever, sitting straight up in his desk chair with that immaculate posture. Not a hair out of place, not ever, except for when Simon’s got his hands in it. 

“Simon did you know that?” Penny asks. She’s so bad at this, honestly, but Simon catches Baz tense whenever she speaks. She can be proper intimidating, he supposes, but he knows her too well to feel it. 

He turns to her, still frowning at Baz’s statement. He’s itching with the need to correct him - they’re not _plotting_ , not really. Though, he supposes, they _are_ scheming. 

“No,” he responds simply, because his tongue feels too big for his mouth all of a sudden. All his words are getting stuck in his throat, caught and tangled around his thoughts. Which is really inconvenient, because this is the part where he’s supposed to ask a question.

If only he could remember it. 

Simon breathes a sigh of relief when Baz cuts in to interrupt, and he collapses on the bed next to Penny. 

“I’d quite like to get some studying done, if you’re done interrogating me.”

Penny nudges Simon’s side, a cue for something he can barely remember. “I’m done. Simon, do you have any questions?” 

There it is. He’s got a lot of questions, mostly ones that he can’t even answer for himself. A lot that he can’t even remember. 

_“Are you gay?”_ He imagines asking, then pictures the splendid eye roll he’d receive in response for that. Penny had urged him to ask who his soulmate was, but Simon’s courage wavers with how blunt the question is. At least the gay thing makes _sense_ to ask. 

He’s still trying to figure out if he wants to know at all. Mostly, he likes getting to know other things about him, the ones that are less obvious. The things only Simon gets to know.

“Have you met your soulmate yet?” Penny asks, instead of waiting for Simon to ask. It defeats the whole point of it - it’s not like he’s magically constrained to tell _her_ the truth - but he doesn’t have time to bicker with it about it. 

Baz makes a strangled sort of noise in the back of his throat and crosses the room in one long stride to the door. 

**_Baz_ **

There it is. Baz thought that his demise would come in a flash of courage, Simon finally picking his side in the middle of their war and ending Baz in fiery flames. Or maybe he’d take advantage while Baz was weak, stabbing him in the middle of a kiss. 

He was wrong. He’s about to be done in by Penelope Bunce and her infernal meddling habits. 

He can’t get his hand around the doorknob fast enough, and he lets a “ _yes”_ slip free while he runs out, concealing the lie in his rush to leave. He realizes as he steps out for a breath that it wasn’t even Simon who’d asked, and lets out a breathless curse. 

**_Simon_ **

They’d both heard the yes, even if it was a slip-up. 

He can practically hear Penny’s brain whirring, even after the door is shut and silence falls heavy between them.

“Interesting,” she says, and Simon groans. 

“He didn’t say he was _my_ soulmate, Penny. Just leave it.”

He’s suddenly exhausted by the possibility of it. His adrenaline has left him feeling boneless and weary, and her insistence makes him feel wrong all of a sudden. It’s not like him to feel that way, but then again, plotting is Baz’s thing anyway. He should’ve known better than to try it for answers. 

“You think he’d admit it?” She scoffs, standing up from the bed to let herself out. “Think more about why you don’t want to know, Simon.” 

Her tone becomes softer at the second part, but the truth behind the words feels like a slap to the face. The sound of the door slamming makes him flinch, and he buries his head under his pillow and groans into the empty room.

“Are you finally dying?”

Simon startles at the sound of Baz’s voice, not having heard him come into the room. He must’ve slipped in behind Penelope.

“If I say yes, will you leave me alone?”

Baz looks surprised at that, and also suspicious. Something’s flickering underneath that look though - worry, probably from earlier. His eyebrows are knitted together uncharacteristically, and he’s holding himself in a distant manner, body tense like he’s bracing for something. 

“Do you want me to?” Quietly, like he’s considering it. Like he doesn’t take every chance he can to spite him. 

Simon thinks about that for a second, then decides that no, he doesn’t. He drops his face back into the mattress and lifts his arm, flailing it around in hopes that Baz will get the message.

“Christ, are you having a stroke?” 

“Don’t be such a fucking _dick_ ,” he growls, lifting his face again to glower at him. “Just, come here? Please?” 

He does, standing at the edge on the edge of the bed rigidly. 

“Now what?” He asks, and Simon rolls over onto his back with Baz following close behind. His questioning eyes dart to Simon’s as he pauses just before their lips connect. Simon shakes his head again and Baz moves back, laying on his side, just facing him.

“Not that, not right now.,” Simon mumbles, “I’m sorry about earlier. She was really just curious about her soulmate stuff. Can we just… talk?”

There goes his eyebrow again, arching up, like he doesn’t believe it. Simon breathes out a heavy sigh and Baz sighs back, nearly imperceptibly. 

“Alright then, Snow. Talk.”

Simon frowns, letting his eyes fall closed. He’s done this a couple of times before with Aggie, but she always talked enough for the both of them, right up until Simon would fall asleep. That probably wouldn’t work with Baz though. 

Simon wracks his brain for things to talk about, searching Baz’s eyes for a hint. How do people usually talk? What is there to talk _about_ ?

“How was your day?” He asks. That’s usually what Penny asks while she studies, and he attempts to. 

Baz looks like he’s restraining himself from rolling his eyes, or maybe just trying to figure Simon out, but he answers regardless. 

“Fine. Up until you and your side kick came in to disturb the peace.” His mouth curves downwards as he stares at Simon, eyes roving everywhere along his face. Simon feels it like a phantom touch, nearly sweet with how subtle it is.

It eases his wariness about earlier, but picks his heart rate up just the same. He can’t even be bothered to be annoyed with the dig, too focused on the way Baz’s eyes are shifting slowly across his face. 

“That’s good,” he mumbles, keeping his own eyes open stubbornly despite the fatigue he’s battling. 

Baz sighs again, hand coming up between them like he’s going to touch Simon’s face. He pauses only for a moment before letting it come up to his own hair, seemingly oblivious to the way it makes Simon’s heart beat faster. 

“And you?” 

“Good,” Simon responds absentmindedly, as he wonders if vampires have advanced hearing. His mouth moves before he even realizes. “Can you hear better than actual humans?”

He frowns, moving back just the slightest bit. If Penny’s theory holds, he couldn’t lie about that sort of thing. Simon anticipates the truth, feeling slightly embarrassed for playing dirty, but waits for him to dodge regardless.

Baz deliberates for a few seconds in silence, eyes fixing on Simon’s own, before he settles. 

“Yes,” he says, then quieter, “Your heart is going too fast right now, calm down Snow.” 

**_Baz_ **

It takes him a second to recall the textbook passages, only a moment to remember. It’s the question on every exam, during the history of soulmates lecture period.

_Your soulmate doesn’t have to return your feelings. It is inevitable that you will meet them, but it is not guaranteed that something will come of it._

It’s why he’s kept it a secret for so long, why he’s focused more on the distance between him and Simon than his feelings. What was born across a gap had been shortened by the time it took to catch a breath in between kisses. It’s even shorter now in this space, less than a few inches between them while they talk. 

Simon knows, probably. The thought is dangerous, is a hand in open fire, but Baz can’t manage to pull back. Simon stares in awe at the truth offered to him, blue eyes flicking between Baz’s eyes and his mouth. 

“Wicked,” he whispers quietly, and his heart slows once again as he calms. 

Baz thinks that he could stay here and just stare at him as the light fades in the room, without conversation. He never imagined that they’d end up here, balancing on the precipice of something bigger than their current relationship. Relationship is an ugly term, too specific for their conflicting mess of actions and all the things they don’t say. 

Careless for Simon, with his deliberate hands and misguided conversation. 

Too careful for Baz, all soft touches and pauses, hesitation and concealment. He’s never let himself go fully, even in the moments when Simon’s winding down, because the danger of it is as present as a noose around his throat. 

_It is not guaranteed that something will come of it_. 

Simon stares at him for a second, like maybe he’s thinking of the same thing. His mouth falls open a few times but he says nothing, just content to lay and stare. 

“What are you doing, Snow?” Baz asks, words taking on the texture of a blade as he sneers at him. _Put up a wall, guard your heart, bite your tongue._

“Looking,” he responds, voice small but solid through the waning light.

His eyes look like stars now, bright compared to the backdrop of the darkening room; his freckles, the constellations connecting across his entire face. A shaft of moonlight shines on him through the window and illuminates his skin, making him look like a dream come to life.

_Maybe he is one_ , Baz thinks. He has to bite down on his tongue to keep from speaking it into the silence.

“Baz?”

“Simon?"

“What’re you thinking about?”

Baz is worried about the truth for a split second, and then he’s not. Simon’s eyes have already shut in his few seconds of hesitation to answer, his mouth falling open in an early imitation of snoring. Baz considers moving into his own bed, under the comfort of his pile of blankets, as he feels the chill of the night dance across his skin. But he can’t bring himself to pull away when Simon’s body heat radiates over onto him.

It wouldn’t be the first time they shared a bed, but it’s the first time that hasn’t been preceded by anything else. _Definitely a dream_ , Baz thinks. His eyes shut against his will, and he sinks further into the mattress. 

Later, he dreams of Simon’s blunt edged fingers tracing lines across his face. He whispers something in Baz’s ear, becoming a nightmare, soaked in blood and burning pain.

When he wakes in the morning; Simon’s gone. Baz stumbles into the shower, feeling clammy with sweat and tacky with imaginary blood. Shaken, he rubs his hands vigorously across his face, and his hands come back stained red. 

His lungs fill with icy panic as he grapples for a towel, knotting it around his waist hurriedly with shaking hands, before he lunges towards the mirror. 

There’s a gash running along the length of his cheekbone, in the spot where Simon had reached out in the dream and touched. The amount of blood is absurd, considering he hasn’t fed properly since he’s been spending so much time with Snow, but Bunce’s voice comes back to haunt him. 

A reminder of what he’s always known. The bigger the lie, the worse the injury. 

The cut on his cheek is fresh enough to be bleeding steadily, and it sweeps from just under the corner of his eye to the top of his lip. “ _Shit_ ,” he mutters, slamming his hand on the countertop in the bathroom. 

He presses toilet paper to the wound to catch the blood, and dresses as quick as possible, before fumbling for his mobile. Niall answers on the first ring. 

“Baz?”

“ _Help_ ,” he croaks, and Niall mumbles something into the receiver before hanging up, taking the roar of sound with him. Baz sits impatiently, mind twisting and tangling, snagging on theories and explanations that are quick to disappear under his own panic. 

None of his thoughts make sense. He goes back to the bathroom and gapes at the cut, eyes wild and making his face nearly unrecognizable. A soft knock at the door interrupts his racing thoughts, and he wrenches his hands from the counter to open it. 

Niall storms in, gasping quietly as he takes in the mess of Baz’s bloody cheek. 

“Baz,” he murmurs. His hands are shaking and his eyes are wide, remnants of the fear carrying from Baz’s voice over the call, but his voice is steady. Baz is thankful for his composure, letting it drift over him. 

“What happened?”

Baz shakes his head, feeling his fangs pop with the sudden panic rising up his throat again like bile. Niall’s eyes quickly drop down to his mouth before sliding back up to the gash. He winces and drags his eyes away. 

“I was dreaming, or maybe I wasn’t. I don’t know. He lied to me. I don’t remember what it was, just that it was a lie. And then there was so much blood, I was drowning in it.”

“Did you bite him? In the dream?” Niall asks, a soft frown punctuating the concern in his question. 

“No. I woke up and he was gone and I was bleeding. I didn’t even notice until I got in the shower.”

Niall glances over at Baz’s pillow, and his eyes follow naturally. It’s stained with pale red droplets. 

If Niall was crueler like Dev, he’d have mocked Baz for not checking his pillow first. If he was more idiotic, like Simon, he would have come up with something nonsensical. 

But Niall is himself, so he sighs sadly and goes to the bathroom, pouring water on a cloth to wipe Baz’s face. He makes quick work of cleaning up, and they’re silent as he puts pressure on the deepest part of the cut. 

The sound of rain breaks the silence, and they both turn to face the window.

“Do you think he knows?” Niall’s voice is soft, but the worried edge to it makes Baz tense up again. 

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to stay with you? I can get a pass for us.” 

Baz nods numbly, still too shocked to think about classes. Bunce won’t end up top of the class for a few hours that Baz missed. And he has three classes with Snow today that he refuses to attend. 

“Are you alright?” 

Baz shakes his head and Niall fixes a worried look on him, shifting closer in solidarity. They stay like that for a long moment, before he heads to the door. 

  
  


**_Simon_ **

Penny repeats herself. “We have _class_ , Simon. Get out.” She’s rather unapproving of his coping mechanism, lacking empathy for his preferred method of dealing with his problems. 

He shakes his head before he remembers that she can’t see him. “No.” 

She huffs so loudly that he’s surprised the door doesn’t blow down. 

“I didn’t even see him at breakfast.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s not going to class. We have class together, Penny. With _him_.”

“You _live_ with him. You’re going to have to see him eventually.” The thought makes him whimper pathetically. 

The sound of the door unlocking forces Simon’s eyes shut, as she slides down next to him.

“Simon,” she whispers, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Didn’t you want to find out?” 

“Not like this,” he whispers back, voice wavering. Her hand finds his in the dark and squeezes. “I don’t know what to do. What if he doesn’t even have feelings for me?”

“Do you have feelings for him?” She shoots back, like she’s been waiting to ask. Maybe she already knew. Her voice is gentle, at least, though it’s probably because she doesn’t want to get caught.

“Yes? I don’t know? How do I even know if I’m gay?” 

She pauses with a thoughtful look on her face, pressing her thumb into the back of Simon’s hand. It’s an old habit from their first year, when she’d drag him around to get through the hordes of students faster. It has the same comforting effect that it used to, clearing the fog from his mind.

“Well. You’re certainly attracted to him,” she says slowly, consideringly. Leading Simon to a conclusion he can’t grasp. 

“Isn’t everyone?” 

Her face says that no, not everyone is. Which is absurd, in Simon’s opinion. Even if he didn’t want to makeout with Baz, he’s sure that he’d still find him perfect. His frown feels heavy on his own face.

She must see it in his face, because she rolls her eyes and clarifies for him.

“He’s _attractive_ , but I’m not _attracted_ to him.” 

“Oh,” Simon says to his knees, even though he doesn’t quite get the difference. Penny echoes him mockingly, nudging his shoulder with her own. They lapse into silence for a moment and she presses harder into his side reassuringly. 

“What do I do?” He asks, voice more quiet than before. She’s silent for so long that he’s sure he imagined speaking, but then she squeezes his hand again and sighs. 

“You’ve got to think Si. Talk to him, maybe?”

“Talking is what got us into this mess,” he mutters, leaning his head further back on the wall. 

“It can fix it too,” she says firmly, “And it may not be a mess, Simon. What if he likes you too?”

“What if he doesn’t? We’re _soulmates_ , but what if it doesn’t work?”

“I told you that already,” she mutters, then adds, “If it doesn’t, then it doesn’t.” Her voice is simple, but Simon knows she feels bad because she reaches a hand up to pull his hair off his forehead. The gesture is so familiar that he lets out a sad sigh.

After a moment of silence, she moves away. Simon has to strain his eyes to see her wrinkled nose in the dim lighting. “Can we go? It stinks in here.”

“Take it up with the goats,” he says, the way Ebb always did when he used to complain about the smell. She takes a deep breath to sigh and ends up gagging, then scowls at him while his body shakes with laughter.

“Ugh, come _on_ ,” she says, grabbing his hand and forcing him out of the pen. A goat outside attaches itself to her skirt immediately, and she gags again, but gives it a reluctant pat on the head after shooting Simon a withering look.

She manages to drag him into their first class, and he sinks into his seat with immediate relief when he sees that Baz isn’t there. It’s a source of concern for the teacher, apparently, as she says his name - all four parts - three times. Which makes sense, since he never misses class, but Simon can’t help the cold relief washing over him. 

It doesn’t last. Niall walks into class late, ignoring the teacher’s annoyed glare and walking straight to her desk to whisper something to her. Her face softens instantly as she scoops up two hall passes, filling them out as he continues talking.

Penny taps Simon’s elbow and tilts her head. His eyes follow, catching sight of Niall’s trembling hands, the blood under his fingernails. Alarm shoots through him at the sight. 

“Miss,” Simon says, voice shaking, “May I go to the restroom?”

She waves a hand dismissively and he stands up jerkily, ignoring the loud conversation from the rest of the students and Penny’s whispery tone. 

As soon as he steps outside, he ducks into an alcove to wait for Niall to emerge. 

“Simon,” he says, voice dripping with exhaustion. 

Simon startles, moving out from the shadow and into Niall’s space. “How did you even see me?” 

He rolls his eyes, gesturing at Simon. “You’re bloody _huge_ mate.”

“Baz is taller than me,” Simon says with a frown, and Niall rolls his eyes again exasperatedly. 

“You’re a moron,” he says, but his voice is oddly soft. Out of Baz’s two friends, Simon’s always liked Niall better. He seems kinder, a bit like Agatha. 

Not too kind apparently, because he scoffs and moves around Simon when he gets lost in his thoughts. 

“Hey wait!” Simon calls, jogging to catch up with his brisk pace. His heart starts hammering in his chest when he looks down again at Niall’s hands. The blood’s barely there, probably hastily scratched out while he waited for the pass, but still. 

“Is he okay?” Simon asks, and Niall stills. He tenses like he’s preparing for a fight, or maybe just going on defense. 

“Go away.” His voice holds only the slightest tremor, but the evidence is in his bloodshot eyes, in the pity weighing his features down. It makes Simon’s stomach churn with nerves.

“I _know_ already, okay. I’m not going to murder him for it.”

Niall has a look of disbelief on his face, and Simon scoffs incredulously.

“I’m _not_ ,” Simon repeats, unsure of how much to reveal.

“Right,” Niall says slowly, walking away. “Go back to class. You don’t have a pass.” 

Simon growls and stalks back to class. Penny throws him a questioning look but he shakes his head, listening to the teacher drone on about her lesson.

_“Fridays are considered auspicious in the event of revealing truths, sharing secrets, or letting your opinion be known.”_

Simon groans quietly in his seat and puts his head down. 

  
  


**_Baz_ **

Niall comes back with a pass and a cup of tea - probably spelled - and shoves them both at Baz. 

He looks irritated, and his sympathy is worn at the edges. He takes a look at Baz after a slow breath and his face softens once again. “He’s looking for you,” he mumbles, and whatever is left of the blood in Baz’s body cools instantly in his veins. 

“What?” 

“He came up to me asking for you. He looked worried, Baz,” Niall says, eyes darting back to the cut on Baz’s face. 

He reaches for it instinctively. All the healing spells he’d used while Niall was out barely touched it, and he managed to irritate it enough for the bleeding to come back. _And_ he’s out of concealer. 

He supposes there are bigger problems, like the fact that Simon’s looking for him. He can’t tell if that’s a problem right now, or if it compares to his other problems. His worry is eating a hole through his stomach, and the rush of adrenaline leaves him more empty than before. He’s going to have to feed more than usual tonight, if he even manages to get up.

He probably should. If Simon’s looking for him. 

Baz has various scenarios about his death, and none of them involve Simon finding out. It was supposed to be his secret alone to deal with. His burden, another weight in the center of his chest to pin him down and keep him from reaching for more of Simon than he could ever have. 

This is the story he’s familiar with, and then Simon went and stepped off of his pedestal to wreck it.

“Do you know what the lie was?” Niall asks quietly, and Baz shakes his head after a moment. 

“Do you want me to leave you alone?” He asks next, and Baz nods, needing the time to clear his mind. Niall stands, pausing by the bed awkwardly.

He whispers, “Do you need a hug?” and it startles a humorless laugh from Baz. 

“No, I’m fine,” he says, shocked, and Niall starts moving towards the door, muttering something like _“Oh thank fuck,”_ under his breath. Baz huffs out a real laugh this time, short and relieved, and Niall turns to smile reassuringly at him before he leaves. 

Just as soon as the door closes gently, Baz hears scrambling outside, then a shout and a sickening thud. 

Vaguely, Niall’s voice carries through the heavy wood, as he shouts something unintelligible. Baz catches his name in the mess, and stands up from his bed and opens the door curiously, to see Simon sprawled out along the bottom of the stairs. He groans when he catches sight of Baz, pain cutting through the anger in his expression.

“Goddamit,” Simon hisses, as Baz spells him up to take him to the infirmary. “Niall pushed me down the fucking stairs,” he mumbles around his groans. 

“Good man,” Baz says under his breath, though he stifles it when Simon glares pointedly at him. 

  
  


**_Simon_ **

“Why didn’t you just spell it set, Mr. Snow?”

Simon glares at the nurse until she turns away with an indignant huff. She’d been there when he tried to spell his bleeding leg shut, watched the whole thing as the wound got wider. He’d needed stitches after he tried to fix it himself, when he shouldn’t have in the first place. 

Baz grimaces at his side, looking every bit as awkward as Simon feels. The nurse already asked him about _his_ injury, and he’d mumbled something about soulmates trouble, shifting uncomfortably under her sympathy. 

She didn’t ask about exactly how Simon had gotten hurt, too distracted by Baz, but he couldn’t stop fuming. He’d gotten sick of waiting around, so he’d bolted out to confront Baz, finally. Niall caught him on the way down, throwing a panicked glance over his shoulder at the door and blocking Simon’s path. 

“Niall,” he’d groaned. 

“Shut _up_ ,” he’d muttered, eyes flashing wildly, fisting his hand in the collar of Simon’s shirt. 

“This is my ro-!” 

The stairs disappeared from under his feet, and he’d his arm crack under his own weight. Niall had run past him, calling out for Baz as he left. 

And now they’re here, with Simon sitting on a pile of secrets, getting his arm healed and Baz standing beside him, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. He wonders if Baz knows. _He’s smarter than me_ , Simon thinks, _he must have known_. 

All of a sudden, his history of injuries is starting to make a lot more sense. 

He doesn’t manage to break from his own head until Baz is nudging him. 

“Get up,” he says in a dark tone, looking anywhere but at Simon’s face. 

“Here’s a pass, Mr. Snow. You’re exempt from your classes. Here’s a second one for your roommate.”

“Actually miss,” Simon interrupts as she scrawls out a nameless pass. “Baz is my roommate. Er, Pitch. For the note. That’s his last name.” 

His voice fades out at the end when Baz shoots him a look. 

“Christ,” he grumbles under his breath. Simon feels the brush of Baz’s fingers on the inside of his wrist and flushes hotly, ignoring the scowl he gets in response. Baz doesn’t let go though, even though he’s muttering something under his breath. 

In the morning light, the cut on his cheek hadn’t looked so bad, but now, under the amber light of the hall lamps, it looks deeper than Simon thought. He winces, touching his free hand to his own cheek as they stumble up the stairs to their room. 

_Shit_. He should have been preparing for something to say, a way to explain what happened, but his mind is coming up peacefully blank. 

_Say what you feel_.

Though, everything he says always comes out too intense or too careless, and he’s done being careless. Being careless is what got Baz injured in the first place, and has been for the past few years. Guilt sinks into his chest and brings hot tears to his eyes, but he blinks them away hastily when Baz leads them into the doorway. 

**_Baz_ **

He didn’t think this through. He should have told her he couldn’t afford to miss class, or made something up about feeling ill to stay there. 

Now he’s stuck in a room with the person he’s meant to be avoiding. Alone. 

It’s a dream and a nightmare in one. Simon’s both; a nightmare in the mornings when he wakes up with the sun in his hair, untouchable, and a dream in Baz’s bed, cradled by moonlight and shaking hands.

_Don’t think about that. Don’t think of him at all._

Simon sits down for only a moment and says, “So I’ve been thinking-”

Baz swallows down any hope he has and responds, “Since when do you think?” Scathing is better. A scalding tone will keep him at bay, just like it’s done for him before. Being weak is what got him in this mess in the first place.

Simon shoots him an ugly glare, so Baz turns his attention on the window, striding over to it and pulling the curtains closed. Simon stands up and marches over, pulling them back open. 

Neither of them back down, which leaves them standing with only an inch of space between them. Baz can taste the air around Simon’s mouth as they share breaths, catching black tea and stale bread. Even then, he can’t bring himself to pull away. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Simon continues, brows furrowing with frustration, “There’s. Something, we should talk about.”

He says each of his words with a heavy emphasis, like he’s trying to get Baz to comprehend, or maybe like he’s trying to comprehend himself. His heart is beating double time; Baz can hear it pounding away in his chest. 

_So alive_. Just standing next to him makes Baz feel more alive - hot adrenaline and adoration fueling his empty veins alongside the blood.

“Then talk, Snow,” he manages, and Simon huffs as he moves to sit on his own bed.

“I _know_.”

Baz says, “Glad you finally understand the basic mechanics of talking,” instead of the barbed lie filling his mouth. It’d only prove Simon’s point if he let the words spill, rotting poison off his tongue that would lead to an injury.

“Come off it,” he growls, standing and stalking towards Baz.

“Do you plan to be running in circles between your bed and I all night? Seems redundant.”

Once he starts deflecting, he can’t seem to stop, though the insults he slings are uncomfortably passive. He wishes Snow had never figured this out, or maybe that he’d get it over with and pull out that infernal sword already.

“Why are you so _mean_ ?” Simon hisses, after the third rebuttal Baz throws his way. _Deflect, deflect, deflect. Avoid the problem at hand until he charges._

He slips though, because Simon’s come close again and he can’t think when they’re face to face, nearly nose to nose. He can count his eyelashes from this distance, he could kill him, or kiss him to close the gap. 

“I think you know why I’m so _mean_ to you,” he says, catching himself instantly and adding, “Are you going to complain to the headmaster?” He sneers to drive his point, but Simon lit up at the first part, not paying attention at all to the second. 

He slipped because he’s given Simon the chance to guess. And if he lies, the evidence will be there for both of them. Baz is running out of options.

He glances at the window, wondering how bad it’d hurt if he didn’t manage a floating spell as he jumped out. Then, again at Simon, who doesn’t have his sword out _yet_ , but could get it at any moment. He’s got that mad glint in his eyes, like right before he goes off.

This is the end of the dive, with the water right below him. He wants to run, but there’s nowhere to go but down. 

  
  


**_Simon_ **

“I think you’re mean to me because you’re _scared_ ,” Simon says, not thinking to ask a question. Baz keeps looking between him and the window, and he instinctively moves closer to it to block him.

He’s not too sure whether he’d risk jumping out, but with the way he keeps glancing at Simon’s hip, he’s probably expecting him to bring out his sword. 

Simon is sent into a panic at the thought, fretting and trying desperately to think of the right words to say before Baz bolts. _It wasn’t nearly this hard with Aggie_ , he thinks, as guilt swarms him instantly. _But then again, did you ever really like her?_

For some reason, he doesn’t have to question whether he likes Baz. It feels normal, like coming home. _Soulmates_ , he thinks, and heat pours into his chest to replace the icy guilt. He doesn’t even have to _think_ about this, he realizes. It’s been there, sitting in his chest the whole time, waiting for him. 

Just like Baz.

“ _Hey_ ,” he says, and his voice comes out unrecognizable, drenched in that realization. The second their eyes meet, Simon feels himself soften, an ice cube left out in the sun. 

Baz’s hand comes up to push his face away, as he mutters something unintelligible under his breath, and Simon feels himself grin. 

Baz doesn’t quite flush, but his breath comes out in a huff. “Don’t look at me.”

Simon isn’t deterred. “Why?”

“Don’t look at me _like that_ ,” he clarifies, huffing again. 

“If I don’t look at you, will you talk to me?” 

“Do I have a choice?” He asks, forced nonchalance. Simon knows him too well to be fooled. It’s in the hitch of his breath, the tense way he’s holding himself away from Simon like he’s holding back. His hands are trembling. 

“I suppose. I don’t quite have a choice in the matter, do I?”

Simon shrugs. “There’s a door. Were you planning on swan diving out the window?”

Baz looks pensive, like he hadn’t considered the door before. He moves stiffly towards the bed and Simon follows silently. 

**_Baz_ **

The bloody _door_. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

“Talk then,” he mumbles to his knees, as Simon settles next to him. 

He feels foolish, soaking the hope in his chest with defeat and tamping it down each time it threatens to rise. Simon’s voice carries through, a spark to reignite it despite Baz’s best efforts.

Baz offers silence as Simon thinks. He chances a glance, watching as Simon sucks his lower lip between his teeth. He lowers his eyes and taps his fingers along his ribcage, a guise to hide the shaking of his hands. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurts suddenly, hand coming up to brush along the wound on Baz’s face, “For your face. I hope it doesn’t scar.” 

Baz shakes his head, too overwhelmed to speak, too untrusting of the things he could respond to that. The wrong answer will send Simon a million miles away, another wrong one could topple this careful operation over. He’s falling, and he refuses to cling to hope to slow down.

“We don’t talk,” Simon says, interrupting the silence again. “Not like this.”

_And you don’t normally look at me like that_ , he wants to say. He has so much to say - so many collected words. How could he arrange them in a way that keeps the hope tamped down, in a way that keeps Simon just as close as he is now. Any closer means fire, means burning.

“We don’t,” he confirms, and he hates the bitterness seeping into his tone. Simon couldn’t possibly understand where it comes from, and yet, he takes it in stride. His face changes with it, like the past years are starting to make sense to him. 

“How long have you known?” He asks, voice softer now. 

“Since we were kids,” he responds flatly. The truth is salt in his wounds, redundant in his stubborn head. _Soulmates don't mean feelings. Nothing will come of it_.

“And…” Simon continues, “Do you. Feelings, I mean. I…” 

His voice fades out, turning miserable in an instant. Baz feels his stomach drop when Simon turns to look at him. 

_Nothing will come of it,_ says the voice in his head, and he repeats it instantly, flinching when Simon recoils at the words. 

“Baz,” he says, voice horribly sad, or pitying. Some emotion that Baz doesn’t want to identify, if only to spare his own feelings. “Oh, I just. Well, not for you. I- Something _has_? At least for me.”

Baz looks up, irritation snapping at the jumble of words streaming from Simon’s mouth. 

“What are you even saying?” He snarls, pleased by Simon’s blank face. A moment of silence stretches around them, as they stare at each other. Baz works his jaw, racing for something to say, but Simon beats him to it.

“Do you have feelings for me?”

“Plenty. Annoyance, frustration. The list goes on.”

He knows too well how to shift words, to transform the meaning of things, after years of it.

He’s never prepared for Simon’s brand of stubbornness though. And he’s smarter than Baz gives him credit for, too. Or he’s just latching on to the stupid expression Baz thought he tucked away, with the other feelings he reserves for Simon Snow.

“Do you have _romantic_ feelings for me?” He clarifies, looking proud and worried at the same time. As if the answer isn’t yes, a million times over. As if, at any time, the answer would change.

“I- I like you, Baz. It’s okay if you don’t like me back, or whatever. I mean, it’s not cool, but it’s _fine_.”

His words illuminate the empty cavern in Baz’s chest, lighting up every shadowy corner, clearing out all the debris of hopelessness. He summons all his magic’s fire, pouring it out to extinguish his doubt.

“ _Simon_.” He sputters to a stop in the middle of a sentence, mouth gaping open comically. His eyes are still a panicked frenzy.

“I don’t- I’m sorry,” he starts, and Baz raises an eyebrow, fighting his nerves and lifting one trembling finger up to tilt Simon’s chin up. They both flinch at the first sounds of rain tapping against the window, a thunderstorm approaching rapidly above the tower. 

Simon meets his eyes with a small laugh, grabbing the tips of Baz’s fingers and holding them to his own cheek. 

“Yes,” he says, soft. He moves his hand and Simon pulls, touching his lips to Baz’s fingertips. 

“Yeah?” Simon asks, pressing a gentle kiss to Baz’s middle finger. 

“I’ve known for so long,” he whispers, leaning closer to Simon to hide the secret safely in his ear. “I’ve felt it for just as long.”

Simon freezes when the meaning of his words finally hits him. 

“Were you trying to avoid lying so I wouldn’t get hurt so much?” He returns, pulling away for a moment. He leaves their hands tangled in his lap, tapping his fingers along the edge of Baz’s knuckles. 

“You saw your bruises,” he says, instead of a direct answer, and Simon’s face falls. 

“We both fucked up,” he says firmly, gesturing at Baz’s face. “It’s alright now.”

Baz snorts, turning to look at the droplets as they splatter the window. “Yeah? So now what? We show up tomorrow and hold hands and tell everyone we’re boyfriends?”

  
  


**_Simon_ **

His tone is all sarcasm, but his eyes are anything but. Simon’s not going to tell him that though, too content watching his pupils dilate as he describes each thing.

He’d seen the despair in Baz’s eyes earlier though. That’s another thing they’re going to have to talk about. Right now, though, he just wants to hold him. If he can’t erase the ghosts from his mind, or take back all their lost years, he’ll hold on until they’re only memories.

He tugs on Baz’s jumper, careful. The sprawl they find themselves in is a fond memory, one from a _before_ that Baz must have found unbearable. If only Simon had known. 

The tightness in his chest comes back stronger this time.

“I’m sorry,” Simon whispers into his chest, and Baz takes a deep breath. 

“For what?” 

“For not knowing sooner. For wasting so much time.”

Simon doesn’t lift his head, too scared of what Baz’s expression might look like. He’s gone incredibly still under him.

“You didn’t know,” he says quietly, and his voice holds such a passive sadness that Simon finally dares to look up. Baz’s eyes are shut, face tensed like he’s in pain.

“I wish I had, though,” he whispers, and Baz’s eyes fall open the slightest bit, scanning Simon’s face. 

“It’s alright,” he says lightly, settling on his eyes after a moment. “It’s alright now.”

The words don’t leave a bruise or a scrape. 

“Alright,” Simon echoes, and Baz doesn’t quite smile, but his arms wrap tighter around Simon’s waist and he sighs into his ear.

Simon lets them fall into silence before he lets the words fall, pouring from his mouth in a rush that he can’t hold back anymore.

“I feel like I’ve spent my whole life waiting for this. Or like, maybe if I never realized, I always knew.”

Baz’s hands slide up to Simon’s face, cradling his jaw between them. His eyes are soft at the edges as he stares, thumb wandering lazily across his cheek. 

“That’s alright,” he says, after a long moment. His hands travel to the back of Simon’s head, pushing it down gently into his chest again. “It’s alright love.”

_Everything makes sense here_ , Simon thinks. With Baz, it always has. 

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello again !
> 
> thank you for reading vv much, comments, kudos, and sharing with your friends is always lovely and appreciated <3
> 
> (psst i just finished my first chaptered fic n' y'all should check it out if you have time, she's my tumultuous pride and joy)


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